by Pippa Grant
This is vaguely familiar.
“Wrong room. So sorry. I—”
Wait.
This isn’t embarrassing. This is opportunity. And I’m a fucking grown woman.
I bitchslap my pulse to get it back into normal range and turn back to face him, because I am officially the new Parker. Parker 2.0, who’s going to call Randy Monday morning and chat about his Pickle Hops.
He’s meticulously drying his hands with sixteen paper towels, which still physically pains me. I might be not as in-your-face about my love of organics as Sia is, but I’m a tree-hugger at heart, and being Parker 2.0 isn’t going to change that.
“You would not believe the issues I have with reading the signs on restrooms,” I say. “Congratulations. Again. Your wife seems lovely.”
Whatever crick in his neck had him staring down his nose at everyone seems to have subsided. Either that, or he’s really serious about drying the undersides of his fingernails. “She is.”
“How have you been?”
“You can save your breath.” He’s working on being a snot, but he’s not quite getting there. “I’m selling to Pure Green. Crunchy can’t have the Pickle Hops TM.”
It takes me a minute to realize he’s added the trademark to his Pickle Hops, and I manage to not roll my eyes at the mention of Crunchy’s biggest mid-level organic grocery competitor.
“You know where I work,” I say.
“I look into every company that tries to buy me out.” His ears are red, which was always a dead giveaway in high school that he’s lying. I wonder if his wife knows.
Yes, I confess, part of me still wonders if she’s actually his wife, but I’m not one to throw boulders at greenhouses.
“I hope Pure Green is giving you a good deal,” I say honestly, because what else am I going to say? Actually, I’m here to talk you out of your business deal in a bathroom that reminds me of the time I had to puke up the Chad-and-Brad mystery brownies?
Chase will be pissed, but he’ll deal.
I’m a person first. And really, so is Randy.
“Also, I’m really sorry about…taking advantage of you back in high school.” Was that exactly what it was? I don’t know. But it feels good to apologize.
He throws his massive wad of barely-used paper towels in the trash, and I try hard not to cringe. “We barely knew who we were back then.”
I smile at him. “We didn’t, did we?”
He goes stiff as a rock, his face drains of all color, and I suddenly sense that we’re no longer alone.
“Hey, faggot,” a sneery voice says. Chills go up my spine, because that voice says it belongs to over two hundred pounds of never-really-grew-up bully. “I thought I told you to leave your ugly ass at home. Money can’t buy friends, even if it can buy you a hot piece of ass. Get out, little darlin’.”
A beefy hand lands on my shoulder, and I don’t think, I just act.
High school fucking sucked. Bullies suck. Strained friendships suck. Being called four-eyes and metal-mouth and loser sucked. Watching my friends being forced to eat mashed potatoes that had been doctored with we-didn’t-want-to-know-what and wondering when it would be my turn sucked.
And I’m.
Fucking.
Done.
My elbow flies behind me, right into his gut, with all the pent-up rage I’ve held in for years. “You fucking get out!” I screech.
I don’t know if he felt it or not, because I’m too busy yanking his meaty paw off my shoulder and wrenching his arm down. “Fuck you!”
I crash my stiletto into his foot, and a yowl of pain registers. “Eat shit and die!”
There are shouts. Screams.
My elbow flies again, and something crunches.
“You bitch, you broke my nose!”
That’s not all I’m going to break.
I finally get a look at the jockhole who called my former best friend an f-word I refuse to say, and without hesitation, I grip him by the ears, twist, and knee him in the nuts.
I’m pounding on his back and kicking him in the stomach when two iron vises clamp around my waist and lift me. At least three more hands grip my arms.
“Down girl,” Rhett says behind me. “We got him.”
“Quit kicking, Parker,” Brooks orders from my right side.
“Yeah, Mr. Baseball needs his nuts to play tomorrow,” Gavin adds from my left.
The bathroom slowly swims back into focus. Jack’s sitting on Brandon Matthias, former quarterback, bully, and dick supreme. Brandon’s nose is leaving a puddle of blood on the floor, he’s clutching his left side like his ribs are broken, and he’s dry-heaving.
Which can’t feel good. Especially with my brother sitting on his back.
Rhett yanks me back before I can kick the bastard again.
“You okay?” Jack asks Randy, who also seems to be in danger of dry-heaving.
Randy gives a jerky nod.
My cheeks are wet, my throat feels like someone took a scrub brush to it, and I can’t quite catch my breath. But it’s not shame, or embarrassment, or regret.
No, this is freedom.
These bullies will never take anything from me again.
I catch sight of Knox watching me from the doorway.
My nose suddenly burns, my cheeks ignite hot enough to scare the sun, and a lump the size of New Jersey clogs my throat. My knees wobble.
He saw that.
He saw all of that.
He quirks one of those classic Knox grins at me. “You are one hell of a woman, Parker Parker Elliott.”
Not remind me to never piss you off.
Not you’re fucking insane.
Not of course you only attract the crazies, because you are crazy.
And not even can we try some of those moves in bed?
Just pure affection. A mental I knew you had it in you, beautiful girl. You’re strong. You’re smart. No one can ever take that away.
And now I really am crying.
“You’re going to fucking jail, you bitch,” Brandon pants.
“Why don’t we call the cops?” My voice is wobbling, my throat is thick, but I’ll be fucking damned if I take one more word from this cretin. This isn’t weakness. It’s leashed fury. “I would love to talk to the police about your history. I’m betting this isn’t the first time you’ve threatened someone smaller than you. Is it?”
I stare that asshole down until he looks away.
I might’ve been weak in high school, but I have four kick-ass brothers who’ve taught me a few things since we all grew up. And I’ve learned a thing or two about myself as well.
Rhett, Gavin, and Brooks let me go, and Knox slips his coat around my shoulders. “Take you home?” he says.
I hold my head high when I walk out of that bathroom, and I don’t give two fucks who’s whispering, who’s eyeballing us, or what any of them will say later. I have to call Chase tomorrow and tell him he’s not getting his Pickle Hops TM deal, but I’ve reconnected with five old friends, my four brothers are undoubtedly going to spin this so I look like a fucking hero, and the most amazing man I’ve ever known is gripping my hand.
Going to my reunion might be the best thing I’ve ever done for myself.
35
Knox
Parker has almost quit shaking when we get back to her apartment. She didn’t meet my eyes the entire Lyft back here, but she was gripping my hand like it was a lifeline and muttering curses about high school bullies the whole time. I unlock the door and hesitate at the threshold.
Leaving her alone isn’t an option, but I don’t know if she wants me.
“Can you stay?” she whispers, and the tentative hesitation leaking into her voice nearly shreds my heart.
I’m inside, wrapping her in a hug in an instant.
She was fucking amazing tonight.
Not for defending herself and Randy in the bathroom—I don’t know if she’s figured out yet that his issues in their relationship were not her fault, or his either
, for that matter—but for going somewhere she knew she’d be uncomfortable, finding the good in it anyway, and having fun despite the trip back to high school.
“Thank you for coming.”
“Nowhere else I would’ve rather been.”
Her breath is hot on my shirt, and my cock lifts an interested brow. Now? it wants to know.
It’s shameless.
“I was a fucking rock star tonight.” The statement comes out strong and powerful, and okay, yes, now, you single-minded joystick.
I cup her cheeks and lift her face to mine, and before I can kiss her, she pushes up onto her tiptoes and claims my mouth with hers.
I’m so fucking glad she’s gripping my shirt and sliding that hot, determined tongue into my mouth, hooking a leg around mine, and soon we’re both panting and I’m thumbing her nipples and she’s clawing at my shirt. “Bathroom,” she gasps.
I cock a brow at her.
“Surprise.” She grabs my hand and hauls me through her apartment, pausing in her bedroom only long enough to grab a handful of condoms from the box on her dresser before shoving me into the bathroom. “Strip. I’m going to Knox your socks off.”
She yanks her sexy red dress over her head—god bless whoever invented that stretchy satin-looking material—and now she’s standing there in just a pink satin bra, matching thong, and those holy fuck heels. She leans over to turn on the water in the shower, and my crotch rocket fires up every last engine and then finds six more. I toss the shirt and shuck myself out of my shoes, jeans, and socks, and I’m reaching for that gorgeous round ass when she turns back around.
“Ah-ah,” she chides. “First, you watch.”
“Parker—”
“I’m a fucking rock star,” she repeats. “And you are my prize.”
My mouth goes dry, my cock strains toward her, and when she slips one strap off her shoulder, my knees threaten to give out.
I’ve seen her naked from head to toe more hours this week than I’ve spent reading, and the sight of her playing the seductress barely an hour after the Wonder Woman show is not only putting an unholy strain on my hard-on, it’s doing wonky things to that little muscle in my chest.
The one that’s getting more and more attached to her by the minute.
Who am I kidding?
That organ’s been attached almost since the moment I saw her at the bachelor auction.
She draws the other strap down, then lifts her chest as she reaches behind herself and unhooks her bra. The cups fall away, exposing the freckles dotting her breasts, the beautiful rosy nipples, hard and pointed straight at me, the perfect patch of skin between her lovely globes.
She slides her hands up to cup herself, and the first hint of shyness creeps into her smile. “This is how I used to get off.”
Fuck me, is she—she is.
She’s touching herself for me.
She fondles her nipples between her fingers, arches her back, then splays her hands and lets them travel down to the waistband on her thong. Her hips roll as she pushes it off, one side at a time, until it drops to the ground.
I’m about to drop to the ground too, to bury my nose in that sweet pussy, to lick her and taste her and suckle her until she comes, but she holds a hand up when I close the distance between us in the small room.
“First, you watch,” she orders again.
“I’m going to fucking come all over your shower walls,” I pant.
She smiles, turns her back on me, and steps into the shower. “Join me?”
As if there’s a doubt.
I grab a condom and follow her in. She’s already under the stream of water, and she lifts an arm to keep me at the edge of the tub. Mist circles my body while the hot water sluices down her breasts and belly. The moisture coupled with the tease of the cool air makes my skin pebble and my balls tighten
“After I saw you as Tarzan, I couldn’t get you out of my mind.” She’s rubbing soap all over her breasts, I imagine her rubbing soap all over me, and my cock gets impossibly harder. “I didn’t want to think about you, so I pretended you were one of hundreds of jungle men who couldn’t resist me. Who all wanted to eat me and touch me and fuck me.”
Her fingers are sliding down her belly now, to that light patch of hair between her legs. She lifts her hands back to her breasts and pinches her nipples again. “But I always hoped it would be you,” she whispers.
Fuck, I hope it’s always her.
I reach for her, but she holds her hand out once more. I have to clench my fists at my sides.
“You should touch yourself too,” she says.
“I want to touch you.”
She smiles, and is that the shower, or are her eyes going misty? “I pretended you’d say that.”
“I want to lick you and eat you and touch you and make love to you until I can’t move.”
Her head rolls back, her hair getting soaked, and her fingers slip between her legs. “You make me feel so strong. So powerful.”
“You’re a fucking goddess, Parker. Let me touch you. I want to taste you and take you now.”
“Okay,” she whispers, and I’m suddenly on my knees, kneeling between her legs, licking and suckling on that sweet clit. Hot water rains down on my head, my fingers bury in her slick, tight heat while she gasps and moans and asks for more and there and deeper. I could drown and die a happy man right here, because her thighs stiffen around my face, and she’s coming, her center clenching down on my hand. That sweet taste of her come mingles with the shower water, her hands gripping my hair, and Christ, I never want to let this woman go.
“Ohmygod, Knox,” she gasps. “That’s—you’re—yes.”
I feel her whole body loosen, and I rise on wobbly legs, retrieve the condom, rip it open, and roll it on. “I’m going to do you against the wall,” I tell her. “And then we’re going to bed, and I’m going to make you come all fucking night.”
“I love it when you talk dirty.” She pulls me in for a hot, hard kiss, strokes my dick, and then her legs are around my hips. I slide into her perfect, tight pussy, pounding and rocking and humping without any smooth moves, without any finesse, just with straight, desperate desire to go deeper, get closer, lose myself so deep inside her. She can never, ever want another man, because she’s mine.
This pussy?
Mine.
These breasts?
Mine.
This woman?
Mine.
Because I’m hers.
Heart, body, and soul. She’s it. I’m done.
She’s moaning and making those beautiful throaty noises that mean she’s close. That she’s about to come again. For me. All over my cock. Her nails dig into my shoulders, her thighs tighten around my hips, she thrusts into me, and she cries out her release.
My climax tears through me, and I roar as I pump into her, her inner walls milking me, coaxing me to spend everything I have to give until I’m dry, wrung-out, and boneless.
The shower’s pouring down on us, she’s gripping me like I’m her lifeline, and my legs are threatening to give out. “God, Parker, I—”
I love you.
I squeeze my eyes shut—not hard, considering they were already crossed—and breathe in the sweet scent of her soap, bury my nose in her soft, wet neck.
She strokes a lazy hand down my neck. “Thank you,” she whispers. “For everything.”
No, Parker Parker Elliott.
Thank you.
36
Parker
There’s a man in my bed—hogging the bed, actually—and I can’t bring myself to mind. Because last night was the last night he’ll be here.
My reunion is over. His Chocolate and Romance program is over. As soon as the Times article runs—undoubtedly soon—our deal is over too.
I’ve pulled my laptop into the bed, because I need to do some research on organic alternatives to the Pickle Hops for when I break the news about last night to Chase, but instead of working, I’m watching the light filter in on Knox
’s features. The soft glow adds shadows to his dark stubble and slowly illuminates that tattoo that I traced with my tongue sometime after we got out of the shower. He’s on his stomach, my leopard-print sheet just covering his ass, and I want to stroke the curve of his biceps and the indentations of those dimples in his lower back, but I don’t want to disturb him.
Not yet.
This moment—it’s mine.
I want to remember this happy feeling. This contentedness. The way the air smells like sex and dusty books and something spicy that makes me think of the jungle. The way his hair falls on the pillow, how his lips are slightly parted as he breathes deep.
I got way more out of this deal than he did.
I’m debating giving up on pretending to work and getting up to make breakfast when he stirs, his lids fluttering open. His lips curve in a smile. “Hey.”
My heart catches in my throat. I’m going to miss this man. I hope we can stay friends. “Morning, sunshine.”
He blinks a few times, then chuckles and rolls to his side. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to hog your bed.”
“I’ll forgive you this time.”
“Okay today?”
And there goes my heart, melting just a little more. I set my laptop aside and nod. “Not sure how I’m going to break the news to Chase, but I feel better than I have in a long, long time.” I squeeze his hand. “Thank you. Again. For everything.”
He pulls me into his chest, and unexpected tears attack my eyeballs. “You did all the hard work. And screw Chase. He’s taking advantage of you.”
“He’s my boss. He writes my paychecks in exchange for me doing the job he’s told me to do.”
“Doesn’t mean he owns you.”
“That’s ridiculous. No one thinks he owns me. Do you have a problem with people wanting to do a good job?”
“No, but failing at one thing doesn’t mean you didn’t do a good job. It means you failed one thing. You learn from it, and if your boss can’t appreciate everything you went through last night, fuck him. You work too hard to take his shit.”